Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (134 page)

“Tell me. Why?” he hisses, and I’m vaguely aware that it’s through gritted teeth.

I cry out in an incoherent wail … this is too much.

“Tell me.”

“Christian …”

“Ana, I need to know.”

He slams into me again, thrusting so deep, and I’m building … the feeling is so intense—it swamps me, spiraling out from deep within my belly, to each limb, to each biting metal restraint.

“I don’t know!” I cry out. “Because I can! Because I love you! Please, Christian.”

He groans loudly and thrusts deep, again and again, over and over, and I am lost, trying to absorb the pleasure. It’s mind-blowing … body blowing … I long to straighten my legs, to control my imminent orgasm, but I can’t … I’m helpless. I’m his, just his, to do with as he wills … Tears spring to my eyes. This is too intense. I can’t stop him. I don’t want to stop him … I want … I want … oh no, oh no … this is too …

“That’s it,” Christian growls. “Feel it, baby!”

I detonate around him, again and again, round and round, screaming loudly as my orgasm rips me apart, scorching through me like a wildfire, consuming everything. I am wrung ragged, tears streaming down my face—my body left pulsing and shaking.

And I’m aware that Christian kneels, still inside me, pulling me upright onto his lap. He clutches my head with one hand and my back with the other, and he comes violently inside me while my insides continue to tremble with aftershocks. It’s draining, it’s exhausting, it’s hell … it’s heaven. It’s hedonism gone wild.

Christian tears off the blindfold and kisses me. He kisses my eyes, my nose, my cheeks. He kisses away the tears, clutching my face between his hands.

“I love you, Mrs. Grey,” he breathes. “Even though you make me so mad—I feel so alive with you.” I don’t have the energy to open either my eyes or my mouth to respond. Very gently, he lays me back on the bed and eases out of me.

I mouth some wordless protest. He climbs off the bed and undoes the handcuffs. When I’m free, he gently rubs my wrists
and ankles, then lies down beside me again, pulling me into his arms. I stretch out my legs. Oh my, that feels good. I feel good. That was, without doubt, the most intense climax I have ever endured. Hmm … a Christian Grey Fifty Shades punishment fuck.

I really must misbehave more often.

A PRESSING NEED FROM
my bladder wakes me. When I open my eyes, I’m disoriented. It’s dark outside.
Where am I?
London? Paris? Oh—the boat. I feel her pitch and roll, and hear the quiet hum of the engines. We’re on the move.
How odd
. Christian is beside me, working on his laptop, casually dressed in a white linen shirt and chino trousers, his feet bare. His hair is still wet, and I can smell his body wash fresh from the shower and his Christian smell … 
Hmm
.

“Hi,” he murmurs, gazing down at me, his eyes warm.

“Hi.” I smile, feeling suddenly shy. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Just an hour or so.”

“We’re moving?”

“I figured since we ate out last night and went to the ballet and the casino that we’d dine on board tonight. A quiet night
à deux
.”

I grin at him. “Where are we going?”

“Cannes.”

“Okay.” I stretch, feeling stiff. No amount of training with Claude could have prepared me for this afternoon.

I rise gingerly, needing the bathroom. Grabbing my silk robe, I hastily put it on. Why am I so shy? I feel Christian’s eyes on me. When I glance at him, he returns to his laptop, his brow furrowed.

As I absentmindedly wash my hands at the vanity unit, recalling last night at the casino, my robe falls open. I stare at myself in the mirror, shocked.

Holy fuck!
What has he done to me?

I
gaze in horror at the red marks all over my breasts. Hickeys! I have hickeys! I am married to one of the most respected businessmen in the United States, and he’s given me goddamn hickeys. How did I not feel him doing this to me? I flush. The fact is I know exactly why—Mr. Orgasmic was using his fine-motor sexing skills on me.

My subconscious peers over her half-moon specs and tuts disapprovingly, while my inner goddess slumbers on her chaise longue, out for the count. I gape at my reflection. My wrists have red welts around them from the handcuffs. No doubt they’ll bruise. I examine my ankles—more welts. Holy hell, I look like I’ve been in some sort of accident. I gaze at myself, trying to absorb how I look. My body is so different these days. It’s changed subtly since I’ve known him … I’ve become leaner and fitter, and my hair is glossy and well cut. My nails are manicured, my feet pedicured, my eyebrows threaded and beautifully shaped. For the first time in my life, I’m well groomed—except for these hideous love bites.

I don’t want to think about grooming at the moment. I’m too mad. How dare he mark me like this, like some teenager. In the short time we’ve been together, he’s never given me hickeys. I look like hell. I know why he’s done this. Damn control freak.
Right!
My subconscious folds her arms beneath her small bosom—he’s gone too far this time. I stalk out of the en suite bathroom and into the walk-in closet, carefully avoiding even a glance in his direction. Slipping out of my robe, I pull on my sweatpants and a camisole. I undo the braid, pick up a hairbrush from the small vanity unit, and brush out my tangles.

“Anastasia,” Christian calls and I hear his anxiety. “Are you okay?”

I ignore him.
Am I okay? No, I am not okay
. After what he’s done to me, I doubt I’ll be able to wear a swimsuit, let alone one of my ridiculously expensive bikinis, for the rest of our honeymoon. The thought is suddenly so infuriating. How
dare
he? I’ll give him
are you okay
. I seethe as fury spikes through me. I can behave like an adolescent, too! Stepping back into the bedroom, I hurl the hairbrush at him, turn, and leave—though not before I see his shocked expression and his lightning reaction as he raises his arm to protect his head so that the brush bounces ineffectively off his forearm and onto the bed.

I storm out of our cabin, bolt upstairs and out on deck, fleeing toward the bow. I need some space to calm down. It’s dark and the air is balmy. The warm breeze carries the smell of the Mediterranean and the scent of jasmine and bougainvillea from the shore. The
Fair Lady
glides effortlessly through the calm cobalt sea as I rest my elbows on the wooden railing, gazing at the distant shore where tiny lights wink and twinkle. I take a deep, healing breath and slowly begin to calm. I’m aware of him behind me before I hear him.

“You’re mad at me,” he whispers.

“No shit, Sherlock!”

“How mad?”

“Scale of one to ten, I think I’m at fifty. Apt, huh?”

“That mad.” He sounds surprised and impressed at once.

“Yes. Pushed to violence mad,” I say through gritted teeth.

He stays silent as I turn and scowl at him, watching me with wide and wary eyes. I know from his expression and because he’s made no move to touch me that he’s out of his depth.

“Christian, you have to stop unilaterally trying to bring me to heel. You made your point on the beach. Very effectively, as I recall.”

He shrugs minutely. “Well, you won’t take your top off again,” he murmurs petulantly.

And this justifies what he’s done to me? I glare at him. “I don’t like you leaving marks on me. Well, not this many, anyway. It’s a hard limit!” I hiss at him.

“I don’t like you taking your clothes off in public. That’s a hard limit for me,” he growls.

“I think we’ve established that,” I hiss through my teeth. “Look at me!” I pull down my camisole to reveal the top of my breasts. Christian gazes at me, his eyes not leaving my face, his expression wary and uncertain. He’s not used to seeing me this mad. Can’t he see what he’s done? Can’t he see how ridiculous he is? I want to shout at him, but I refrain—I don’t want to push him too far. Heaven knows what he’d do. Eventually, he sighs and holds his palms up in a resigned, conciliatory gesture.

“Okay,” he says, his voice placating. “I get it.”

Hallelujah!

“Good!”

He runs his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me.” Finally, he looks contrite—using my own words back at me.

“You are such an adolescent sometimes,” I scold him, mulishly, but the fight has gone out of my voice, and he knows it. He steps closer and tentatively raises his hand to tuck my hair behind my ear.

“I know,” he acknowledges softly. “I have a lot to learn.”

Dr. Flynn’s words come back to me … 
Emotionally, Christian is an adolescent, Ana. He bypassed that phase in his life totally. He’s channeled all his energies into succeeding in the business world, and he has beyond all expectations. His emotional world has to play catch-up
.

My heart thaws a little.

“We both do.” I sigh and cautiously raise my hand, placing it over his heart. He doesn’t flinch like he used to, but he stiffens. He rests his hand over mine and smiles his shy smile.

“I’ve just learned that you’ve a good arm and a good aim, Mrs. Grey. I would never have figured that, but then I constantly underestimate you. You always surprise me.”

I arch my eyebrow at him. “Target practice with Ray. I can throw and shoot straight, Mr. Grey, and you’d do well to remember that.”

“I will endeavor to do that, Mrs. Grey, or ensure that all potential projectile objects are nailed down and that you don’t have access to a gun.” He smirks.

I smirk back, narrowing my eyes. “I’m resourceful.”

“That you are,” he whispers and releases my hand to circle his arms around me. Pulling me into an embrace, he buries his nose in my hair. I wrap my arms around him, holding him close, and feel the tension leave his body as he nuzzles me.

“Am I forgiven?”

“Am I?”

I feel his smile. “Yes,” he answers.

“Ditto.”

We stand holding each other, my pique forgotten. He does smell good, adolescent or not. How can I resist him?

“Hungry?” he says after a while. I have my eyes closed and my head against his chest.

“Yes. Famished. All the … er … activity has given me an appetite. But I’m not dressed for dinner.” I’m sure my sweatpants and camisole would be frowned upon in the dining room.

“You look good to me, Anastasia. Besides, it’s our boat for the week. We can dress how we like. Think of it as dress down Tuesday on the Cote D’Azur. Anyway, I thought we’d eat on deck.”

“Yes, I’d like that.”

He kisses me—an earnest forgive-me kiss—then we wander hand in hand toward the bow, where our gazpacho awaits.

THE STEWARD SERVES OUR
crème brulée and discreetly retires.

“Why do you always braid my hair?” I ask Christian out of curiosity. We’re sitting adjacent to each other at the table, my lower leg curled around his. He pauses as he’s about to pick up his dessertspoon and frowns.

“I don’t want your hair catching in anything,” he says quietly, and for a moment, he’s lost in thought. “Habit, I think,” he muses. Suddenly he frowns and his eyes widen, his pupils dilating with alarm.

What’s he remembered?
It’s something painful, some early childhood memory, I guess. I don’t want to remind him of that. Leaning over, I put my index finger over his lips.

“No, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to know. I was just curious.” I give him a warm, reassuring smile. His look is wary, but after a moment he visibly relaxes, his relief evident. I lean over to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“I love you,” I murmur, and he smiles his heart-achingly shy smile, and I melt. “I will always love you, Christian.”

“And I you,” he says softly.

“In spite of my disobedience?” I raise my eyebrow.

“Because of your disobedience, Anastasia.” He grins.

I crack my spoon through the burned sugar crust of my dessert and shake my head. Will I ever understand this man? Hmm—this crème brulée is delicious.

ONCE THE STEWARD HAS
cleared our dessert plates, Christian reaches for the bottle of rosé and refills my glass. I check that we’re alone and ask, “What’s with the no going to the bathroom thing?”

“You really want to know?” He half smiles, his eyes alight with a salacious gleam.

“Do I?” I gaze at him through my lashes as I take a sip of my wine.

“The fuller your bladder, the more intense your orgasm, Ana.”

I blush. “Oh. I see.” Holy cow, that explains a lot.

He grins, looking far too knowing. Will I always be on the back foot with Mr. Sexpertise?

“Yes. Well …” I desperately hunt around for a change of subject. He takes pity on me.

“What do you want to do for the rest of the evening?” He cocks his head to one side and gives me his lopsided grin.

Whatever you want, Christian. Put your theory to the test again?
I shrug.

“I know what I want to do,” he murmurs. Grabbing his glass of wine, he rises and holds his hand out to me. “Come.”

I take his hand and he leads me into the main salon.

His iPod is in the speaker dock on the dresser. He switches it on and selects a song.

“Dance with me.” He pulls me into his arms.

“If you insist.”

“I insist, Mrs. Grey.”

A slinky, cheesy melody starts. Is this a Latin rhythm? Christian grins down at me and starts to move, sweeping me off my feet and taking me with him around the salon.

A man with a voice like warm melted caramel croons. It’s a song I know but can’t place. Christian dips me low, and I yelp in surprise and giggle. He smiles, his eyes filled with humor. Then he scoops me up and spins me under his arm.

“You dance so well,” I say. “It’s like I can dance.”

He gives me a sphinxlike smile but says nothing, and I wonder if it’s because he’s thinking of her … Mrs. Robinson, the woman who taught him how to dance—and how to fuck. She hasn’t crossed my mind for a while. Christian has not mentioned her since his birthday, and as far as I’m aware, their business relationship is over. Reluctantly though, I have to admit—she was some teacher.